


Saint Michael

by renn



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder goes too far undercover in order to solve an X-File involving a woman he had a one-weekend stand with at university. Scully finds herself tempted by a person who doesn't actually exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saint Michael

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote the a long time ago; found the file recently and thought, why not pop it up onto AO3. So I did.

Okay, so I know you’re going to kick my butt no matter what. And I know I’m being really stupid and immature by not telling you this beforehand. But it’s not like we’ve actually been getting along or anything the past couple months. I’m not sure you’d even listen if I tried to explain this all to your face.

So I’m creating an on-going report for you to read after opening that case of whoop-ass, so you know that I wanted to tell you but was too chickenshit to do so.

Anyway, you’re not going to have a clue until I start at the beginning, and that goes back to Oxford, the winter of 1984. I was in my second year there (having started winter term 1983, yeah, not usual, but then again would you expect anything else from me?) and had fallen in with a group of guys who shared an interest in beer drinking, chick watching, and science fiction kibitzing. I’m tempted to lay the blame for what you’ll have to go through this weekend on them solely; really, I was to blame as much as them.

Maybe I ought to explain a bit about the culture. Something about the upper-class-twitness of the public (read “private”) school system that produces many Oxford underclassmen compels otherwise-reasonable young men to call each other by the stupidest of nicknames. It’s the only bit of the Wodehouseian England that still remains (or remained, really, no clue what it’s like now). The gist of this long-winded prose is that although officially I hung out with Peter, Terry, Colin, and John, we referred to them as Tristan, Guiness, Wanker, and Nobby. And because even then I preferred to be called “Mulder” and because that was considered weird enough as it was, Nobby decided that because of my height and my looks, I should be called “Michael,” after Michael Nesmith of the Monkees. (Geez, it could have been worse! I could have been called “Wool Hat”!)

So anyway, I had been answering to “Michael” for nearly a year by the time we gathered in Tristan’s room one cold February evening to watch _Doctor Who._ Tristan always hosted the TV parties. Not only did he have enough cash to afford a TV license, but he also had connections to get tapes from the States…and an NTSC VCR and TV to play them on. He traded episodes of British shows for episodes of American ones. I liked watching the tapes because it relieved homesickness and I enjoyed everyone’s reactions to “normal” television.

The first part of “Planet of Fire” aired that evening, in which a new, supposedly-American companion was introduced. Personally, I thought her accent was horrible, but she had huge tracts of land and fenced them in nicely in a bikini throughout the episode, so I didn’t mind too much. At least not until, switching off the set, Tristan said, “At least they got the accent right this time.”

“Much better than Tegan’s,” Nobby concurred, passing out another round of beers.

“Er…you’re not referring to Peri, are you?” I asked. “Because if you are, you guys need to watch more American TV.”

Wanker stretched. “What’s wrong with her accent, then? I thought it was spot on myself.”

“Me, too,” Guiness nodded.

“I think we all did, ‘cept for you, Michael.” Nobby leaned into my face. “What’s wrong with Peri’s accent?”

“Well, other than it sucking, not much.”

“I dunno, mate, she sounded a lot like you.”

“I don’t sound anything like that.” I swigged some beer, and set the whole terrible chain of events into motion. “In fact, I bet I do a better English accent than Peri does an American one.”

Nobby snorted. “And how you going to prove that one, Michael?”

“Well—“

“I know,” said Tristan. “He has to convince people he doesn’t know that he’s native. And since we’re going down to London this weekend, I can’t think of a better time or place to do it.”

“But—“

“Twenty quid says you can’t do it.”

“Twenty quid?!”

“All right, fifty.”

That was a serious chunk of change. “Well, if you put it like that, I guess I have no choice. But we gotta have some criteria.”

Guiness and Wanker exchanged glances, probably trying to figure out what “criteria” meant. (It’s not like I hung with the brightest of people, you know. I think they both got into Oxford because of generations of inbreeding….) Nobby nodded knowingly, the alcohol in his system making him overly serious. “You’re absolutely right. We wouldn’t want any cheating. Must be on the up-and-up. All right….” He tapped his finger against his chin. “Now, it wouldn’t be fair to expect you to be English the entire night. Especially not after several pints.”

“Right.”

“I suppose,” Tristan agreed.

“So, the first pub we go to, you have to convince at least three people you’re English. And if you do, you get the fifty quid.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, other than making a complete arse of yourself….”

“You have to clean my flat for a month,” Tristan said. “I’d ask for money, but I know you don’t have any.”

“Gosh, thanks.” I sighed. I knew this was a dumb idea, but hey, it was fifty pounds. Besides, I liked being stuck in the middle of a dumb idea, because it meant I had friends who came up with a dumb idea, and that was something I didn’t really have back home.

So, anyway, I had a couple of days to prepare for the bet, and I spent that time coming up with a bogus background for an English version of me…and working on the accent. I knew I was good…well, I was pretty sure I was good. The only thing I could impress my peers in high school with was my dead-on quotations from _Monty Python’s Flying Circus._ The year I had spent at Oxford had only increased my skill (or so I thought). (Yeah, other things were increased, too, other things destroyed, but we’ll leave Phoebe out of this. Well, other than to mention that we were already history, which is why I was spending too much time with Tristan, Guiness, Wanker, and Nobby.)

(Okay, I know I’m rambling, Scully, but you really need the _whole_ backstory, which means you gotta read through all this crap before I get to the point.)

We arranged to meet at the Oxford train station that Friday morning, with the plan being to check into a hostel upon arrival in London, then head over to Forbidden Planet (a science fiction bookstore) in the afternoon, then pub crawl that night. I showed up in my usual jeans, jacket, t-shirt, and sneakers, but I had several surprises for the “lads” in my backpack. I put up with the usual ribbing on the way down and throughout the afternoon. I didn’t care, really, I was enjoying it.

We returned to the hostel early evening, to do the usual young male preening prior to going out. Wanker and Guiness shared a room; Tristan had his own (rich bastard), which left me with Nobby. I thought it fitting that he be the one to see the transformation first.

No, I’m not being melodramatic. I’m trying to describe a defining moment for me. No, I don’t mean the moment when I realized I was really gullible to other people’s suggestions. I mean the moment when I realized I could get in another person’s head. You, know, the profiling bit. Yeah, I was getting into a fictional person’s head…but the whole experience made me think that maybe I could get into real people’s heads, figure out what makes them tick, determine their likeliest course of action….

But I’m digressing _again._

I had brought along a pair of good pants, a white button-down shirt, a narrow dark tie, and a suit coat infested with little metal pins advertising various punk and synthopop bands. I changed quickly to leave myself plenty of time to do stupid stuff with a tube of gel and a hairdryer. (I had much longer hair back then, so it took awhile to get it all spikey.) Finally, I put on my glasses and took a look in the small wall mirror. Overall, the effect suggested Rik of _The Young Ones,_ except with less acne and better hair.

Nobby returned at that moment from the shower. “Ooer, Michael, that’s a bit of a change, isn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” I replied, using the accent.

“Well, you don’t look American, do you?”

“That’s because I’m not, am I?”

“You should have held out for 100 quid, mate. You’re going to clean up.” Nobby shook his head. “Absolutely bloody clean up.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “Come on, Michael, let’s earn you that money.”

We headed downstairs and met the others in the lobby, then headed over to a nearby pub recommended by the desk clerk. I took the ribbing over my clothing quietly, mostly because I wanted to keep the accent going without letting them know what it really sounded like. So I did a lot of uh-huh s and um-hmms on the three block walk over.

It was still early, judging by the amount of people in the place, so we were able to score a table with no real problem. We ordered a round and surveyed the other crawlers to decide on the likely victims. Tristan spotted a booth of three girls in a back corner. “There you go, Michael, let’s give them a pull.”

“All right,” I agreed.

“Nobby, you come along. You can be the neutral party to determine his success.”

“What about us, then?” asked Wanker.

“Yeah, can’t we talk to the birds?” Guiness added.

“We don’t want to scare them off, do we?” Tristan jerked his head toward them. “Come on, lads.”

Nobby and I followed him over to the booth. The three girls were fairly attractive in a collegiate kind of way. I figured that Tristan would have tried to chat them up anyway, and that he chose them to kill two birds with one stone. In any case, he took the lead, as always. “Hello, there. You look like you could use some male companionship.”

(Yes, his opening line _always_ sucked. And no, I did _not_ get ideas from him.)

The tallest girl—brunette, long hair, green eyes, would have been attractive if she didn’t have a perpetual smirk—gave Tristan the once-over and snorted. “Yes, we could…but I suppose you’ll do.”

“Well, thank you for that vote of confidence. I’m Tristan, by the way.”

“Nancy. This is Maureen,” she pointed at another, smaller brunette with a pinched face, “and her cousin Phaedra.” Phaedra had dirty blonde hair, gray eyes, and a wardrobe that looked left over from the Summer of Love.

“Phaedra?” I asked. “What? Like in the song?”

“What song?” Nobby asked.

“’Some Velvet Morning.’ Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood, 1960-something.”

“Not like the song, but I’m surprised you know about it.” Phaedra definitely had an American accent. (A real one.) She looked at me—and did a double-take. She didn’t say anything else, though, so I thought maybe she thought I looked funny or something.

“Who’re your friends, then, Tristan?” Nancy prompted.

“This is Nobby, and this is—“

“Michael.” Phaedra finished, sounding definite but looking hopeful.

“How’d you know?” I asked.

She smiled secretively, blushing.

Maureen waved her cousin’s reaction off. “Don’t mind her, she’s from San Francisco. Are you lot down from Oxford or Cambridge?”

Tristan slid into the booth next to her. “Oxford. Why? Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, actually. Local college puddings never come here. Our friend Sarah, though, works the front desk at the hostel down the street. She sends likely sorts this way on nights she knows we’re going to be here.”

“So we’re likely sorts, then?”

Nancy shrugged. “At first look. But tell us about yourselves and we’ll decide from there.” She motioned for Nobby to sit next to her.

I was left out, which if you ask me was the entire story of my life to date. I looked around for a chair to pull up. Phaedra nudged Maureen, who nudged Tristan, who rolled his eyes and let both girls out of their side of the booth. He slid back in first, followed by Maureen, followed by Phaedra. “Just enough room here, Michael,” she said, patting about six inches worth of vinyl.

“Ta,” I said, squeezing a butt cheek onto the bench.

Tristan and Nobby both introduced themselves, both embellishing their life histories something awful. I felt I was embellishing myself already by pretending to be British, so I kept my bogus backstory simple. (Pay attention to this, Scully, I’m gonna be tested on it this weekend.)

“I’m rather boring compared to my mates, I’m afraid. Only child, grew up in Woking, Surrey, father’s an architect, mother’s a writer. Dozen or so ‘O’ levels, half dozen ‘A’ levels, reading literature at Queens College, Oxford.”

“So, you’re getting a degree without a use, too, huh?” Maureen said. “Phaedra’s reading English, too.”

“I would have majored in psychology, but I couldn’t take the pressure.”

“Pressure? The tests and experiments?” I wondered.

“No, knowing why people act the way they do.”

“Can’t you learn that from literature, then?”

“With literature, you can pretend it couldn’t really happen.” Phaedra leaned close to my ear. “Could we go somewhere and talk?”

“Er, sure, I suppose.” I glanced at my friends. Tristan mouthed that I had won; Nobby merely winked lewdly. “We could go in the back room, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, I think I would.”

I stood, offering her my arm as she rose. She grabbed my hand in hers…and something extraordinary happened.

I can tell your eyebrow rose when you read that last sentence, Scully. But I assure you, I wasn’t drunk, and I wasn’t as gullible as you seem to think I am these days. She simply touched me. And when she touched me, I found myself , I dunno, _becoming_ this other persona. It was like Fox Mulder was the fictional character, and Michael was the real person. I no longer had to think to do the accent, certainly, and I no longer had to keep all the made-up details in the forefront of my mind. Everything seemed…natural.

And to top it off, I didn’t think anything was weird about it at the time. In retrospect, sure, but I put it down to the hormonal imbalance created when a young adult male was faced with the possibility of getting laid.

So we went into the back room, which in British pubs is a quieter, slightly fancier place where guys bring their girls or their parents for a quiet chat and a pint or two. We found an open table and sat, never breaking hand contact. We ordered another round and a plate of chips (fries, Scully, fries), then she sighed. “Do you ever have dreams?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Dreams involving me?”

I smiled apologetically. “It’s not like I remember any of them, actually.”

“I have had the same dream every month since I was 12. And you’re in it.”

“Am I?”

“We’re floating the clouds, drifting toward a bright light. When I first had them, we just kissed, but as I got older, well, you know.”

“So I slept with you in the middle of nowhere?’

“You didn’t so much sleep with me as transform me.” She squeezed my hand. “I know this sounds completely off the wall, but you were there. Really. You didn’t tell me your name until last month, when you said to come to London and find you. And here I am. Transform me.”

“What? Just like that? Not even any foreplay?”

She suddenly seemed very shy. “Well… I dunno. I guess. You just said to come to London and find you, and that you’d handle things from there. You didn’t go into details or anything.”

“In your dream.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe this is somehow predestined?”

“You’ve come to me every month for 8 years, Michael. What am I supposed to think?”

“I don’t know, what?”

She grabbed me and planted a kiss on my lips that left nothing to the imagination. Then she took my hand again, paid the bar bill, and took me around to her hotel room. She stripped the moment we were inside and all but ripped my clothes off in her eagerness. So I did the only humanly thing possible.

I shagged her, Scully, I shagged her rotten. We spent the next 36 hours doing each other, breaking off only for food, sleep, and the odd twosome-shower. I was having an excellent time, but I certainly didn’t notice any transformation in Phaedra. She wasn’t saying much, really, just moaning a lot….. In any case, my accent, my persona…didn’t slip once. I even came with an English accent… frequently. And I didn’t think it was weird.

Sure, okay, maybe I was distracted by what we were doing, and maybe after awhile I didn’t sound as English as I thought I was. Phaedra certainly didn’t call me on it. So I figured I was doing okay. Then she told me she had to leave.

“What do you mean, leave? This is your room, love. If anything, I should be the one going.”

She tousled my hair and said, “Silly. I mean leave the country. My flight back to the States is at 11. Classes start up again tomorrow, and I have a major to change.” Phaedra rolled out of bed and padded toward the bathroom. “Sorry to break it to you like this, Michael.”

I tried to appear nonchalant. Shrugging, I said, “Well, it’s not like we’ve chatted all that much since we’ve met, you know. Too busy doing other things.”

She smiled. “Good.” She grabbed fresh underwear from her suitcase then returned to the bed. She gave me a full-tongue kiss, then wrapped me in a hug. “Then you’ll understand when I ask you to go.”

“Just like that?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Is it something I did?”

“Oh, no, no, no, goodness no, Michael. Please don’t think that.” She squeezed me tighter; her affection for me flooded my mind as it warmed my soul. “It’s just now that you’ve transformed me, I’ve realized what I need to do. And I need to get back to school, switch my major to psychology, and start helping people.”

“You’re sure this transformation was due to me?”

“Yes. And I’m forever grateful.” She kissed me again with a passion that made me want to make her miss her flight. She pulled back far too quickly for my tastes. “Thank you for everything, Michael.”

“Can we at least stay in touch?”

She shook her head. “We’ll meet again someday. I know it.”

“But I don’t even know your last name!”

“Jones. Boring, isn’t it?”

“Not really.”

“What’s yours?”

“Allingham.” (Surprised, Scully? Nothing too pop culture in that, huh? Although, I will confess, I was reading a lot of Campion mysteries at the time….)

“Well, Michael Allingham, we’ll meet again.” She took my hand and waved her hand over it. “Give it fifteen years or so.” She gave me one last kiss and pulled me out of bed. “Now, get dressed. I don’t want you to be here when I’m done with my shower. It’ll be too hard.” She hugged me. “See you in 1999, my savior.”

Phaedra ducked into the bathroom, and I threw on my clothes and staggered back to the hostel, arriving just in time to find my friends checking out. I got numerous pats on the back and nudges in the ribs from the lads, plus a prompt payment from Tristan. We headed back up to Oxford that afternoon. Other than a lingering soreness below the waist and difficulty talking normally for several days, the weekend left no real effects.

This alone should have alerted me that something strange was going on. I was young and not really paranoid yet, though, so I put it down to being one of those magical college experiences guys like to brag about once they’ve graduated. Even when it became 1999, I didn’t give it or her too much thought, other than thinking it would be really cool if I actually did encounter her again. Then the case came up.

See, Scully, Phaedra actually did switch her major to psychology, and she graduated with honors, too. She went into practice for several years, but discovered along the way that her real talent lay in motivational speaking. She started giving seminars in changing your life, and got quite a following. She advertises strictly by word of mouth and on the Internet. Normally, I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about any motivational speaker. I mean, I see too many of them channel surfing. But several people who attended her recent series of workshops have either committed suicide or gone high school, and since they all thank her for giving them the courage to live their lives the way they really wanted to, and since our fellow agents over in VCS have discounted this connection, it sorta falls onto us.

Before you say anything (well, okay, think anything), yeah, I did think about just showing up as myself, and write off any resemblance to “Michael Allingham” as being an amazing coincidence. And I did think about being up front about being a G-man. Then I thought it over some more, and decided that maybe I should give Phaedra the benefit of the doubt. Maybe by going undercover, we could get at the real truth behind what was going on. Maybe it’s my Achilles heel to be blindly loyal to women I have shagged. In any case, it was decided for me when you got the last spot in her seminar this weekend. I knew that Fox Mulder was s.o.l.—but Michael Allingham might not be.

That’s why I sent you to get an early lunch for us today, Scully. I wanted to call without you hearing me talk English. I gave you a whole five minutes to maybe remember something and come back to the office before I placed the call.

The phone was answered on the third ring by some perky young woman—probably the same one who took your call, if the expression on your face was any indicator. “Phaedradream. I’m Marcy. How can I help?”

“Ah, hello, Marcy, I was wondering if there might be any spots left in this weekend’s seminar.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she sounded genuinely sad. “We just booked the last space about half an hour ago. Could we accommodate you next weekend in Madison?”

“No, that won’t do, I’m afraid, I’m due in London next weekend. There is simply no way to squeeze me in, I suppose.”

“No, I’m afraid not. Phaedra’s most insistent on the maximum seminar size. She feels she won’t be able to give her best with more than a certain number. I could put you on the waiting list, though, if you’d like.”

“If that’s the best that can be arranged….” By now I was starting to think that maybe we should have gone the direct route in the first place.

“Your name, sir?”

“Michael Allingham.”

She repeated it softly, as if making sure she wrote it down correctly. Then she answered an indistinct question from someone in her office. “Could you hold a minute, Mr. Allingham?”

“Of course.” I twiddled with a pencil and wondered what the proper trajectory should be to lodge it into the virgin ceiling tiles above.

A new voice came on—one that I hadn’t heard in fifteen years. “Michael?”

“Phaedra. So it _is_ you behind Phaedradream.”

“What in the world are you doing in the States?”

“Ah…long story. I’m going back next week, though, and I was really hoping to attend your seminar. I’ve heard so much about it.”

“Oh, Michael, you have to come.”

“Won’t I be upsetting your numbers?”

“You’ll never upset me, Michael. Never. Please come.”

“Since you insist….”

“And it’s on me, of course.”

“Ta very.”

“See you Friday, then, Michael. Bye.” Phaedra hung up.

I reached for a legal pad and a pen. I had to start extrapolating more of a life for my fictional construct.

 *****

Mulder’s up to something. He’s been acting weird, even for him. Ever since I took the last spot in that seminar thing…. Well, maybe sending me out to get lunch wasn’t weird in itself, but at 11:24 a.m.? Then, when I got back, he was scribbling away on his legal pad. He hardly even touched the sandwich he was oh so anxious for. He didn’t even finish the jumbo iced tea. He sat there all afternoon, thinking, and writing, and tearing sheets off every so often to start again. I hinted repeatedly that maybe I should be let in on his Deep Thought Process. I don't think he heard me.

Then this morning…he brought breakfast. Not just any breakfast, either. He actually went to Starbucks and actually got me a lowfat cranberry muffin and a grande skim decaf latte. This was shocking enough. But to see him slamming down a vente Earl Grey tea and a blueberry scone…! “Mulder—what the hell’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” He seemed awfully fascinated in his computer screen, a sure sign he was Hiding Something.

“What’s with breakfast?”

“Geez, can’t a guy be nice once in awhile?”

“Well, if it’s you….”

He looked up. “I just got the urge for a scone this morning, Scully, and while I was there I thought I’d pick you up something, too.”

“Uh huh.”

“I get really tired of watching you shovel that yogurt and granola crap down your throat every morning. I thought you should live a little.” He turned back to his display.

“But tea, Mulder?”

“Can’t have coffee with a scone, Scully, makes it taste gross.” He met my eyes again, quirking a smile. “Don’t you have some paperwork to catch up on? I know I do.” He turned back to his work. I could have sworn I heard a soft chuckle.

At this point, I was willing to cut Mulder some slack still. It could happen, after all, he could actually do something nice for me with no ulterior motive. We spent the morning doing computer work, until about noon, when he suggested we go to lunch. He even offered to drive, so we could go to that organic deli place I like.

We got down to his car and hopped in. His tape player kicked in as he started the engine, some kind of comedy sketch about a dead parrot. I didn’t recognise it per se, but I recognised the accents of the performers. “You’re being a real anglophile today, Mulder.”

Mulder ejected the tape quickly. “Yeah, well, Python happens.”

“Something’s going on.”

“Isn’t.”

“Is, too.”

“Is this the five minute argument or the full half hour?”

“What?”

“Not a Python fan, I take it.”

“Should I be?”

He simply shrugged and changed the topic to expense reports. And then I knew for sure that something was going on.

So here I sit, looking like I’m working on another report for Skinner, while I wait for him to reveal the sick processes of his mind to me. And if it has something to do with this Phaedradream case, and he doesn’t tell me what it is before I leave for the undercover work Friday morning, I will seriously kick his ass when I get back.

 *****

You are _soooooo_ paranoid, Scully. Just because I bring you breakfast and offer to drive you to your favorite organic deli for lunch, you think something’s going on. Yeah, well, something _is_ going on, but there’s no way I’m telling you _now._ I don’t care that you spent the entire afternoon pretending to work on that expense report waiting for an explanation. It’s not going to happen. Yet.

I spent most of the evening watching BBC America (for once the cable company added a _useful_ channel) and finishing up my profile. Then this morning I brought my Earl Grey in a travel mug (don’t want you to get too suspicious, now) and switched between the wrap-up on the Bensenville case and a list of what I needed to get to carry out my part of the undercover assignment. (Skinner’s gonna freak when he reads the expense report on _this_ file!)

Now all I have to do is tell you I’m cutting out for the day. Got shopping to do. Got a visit to the Lone Gunmen to make. (I’m not going through official channels for the proper I.D., Scully. I am going so far off Standard Procedures it isn’t funny.)

 *****

Mulder stood up and shouldered into his suit coat. I looked up from my paperwork, glancing quickly at my watch to see what time it was. “Another early lunch, Mulder?” I asked.

“Actually, I’m leaving for the day.” He started stuffing files into his briefcase. “I have some contacts to meet up with.”

“Anything to get out of the paperwork backlog.”

“I’m doing serious work.”

“Uh-huh.” I gave him my patented “Don’t give me that shit” look.

“No, really.”

“And when are we going to have our briefing session? You know, the one where you tell me exactly what I’m looking for while participating in the so-called ‘life-transforming’ weekend? The one that I need before my plane takes off at 10 a.m. tomorrow morning for Chicago?”

“Tonight?”

“You supply dinner.”

“Well, if you’re going to be that way about it…. Say 8?”

“And it better not be pizza or Chinese.”

“Okay, okay.” He gave me a mock salute and left the office.

And now I’m left catching up on my own. Gee, thanks, partner, I’ll do the same for you someday.

***** 

You would have enjoyed my little visit to the Gunmen, Scully. At least I like to think you would have. Langley let me inside. “Dude!” he said by way of greeting. “You have Frohicke in absolute knots!”

“Why?”

“He’s convinced you’re actually going underground and are going to leave us all adrift. Especially your partner.”

I chuckled at that, but my amused expression vanished upon seeing how morose that little troll actually looked. “Hey, Frohicke.”

“Mulder. Or, should that be ‘Michael’?”

“Not going to be ‘Michael’ until tomorrow morning. And then, only for the weekend.” I told them all about Phaedra and why I’m turning English again.

Frohicke finally sighed, and pulled a crumpled twenty out of his pocket. He handed it to Langley, muttering, “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Now I can afford the new GURPS supplement.”

Bryers, who had remained customarily silent throughout my explanation, produced a manila envelope. Emptying the contents, he said, “British passport, drivers license, plane ticket showing a London departure next weekend, Visa card—all charges will pop up on your own card, by the way. Bring in the receipts when you return and we’ll massage your real name onto them.”

I glanced through the documents, confirming that all the photo I.D. showed me with glasses on and that all the other background information I had supplied appeared correctly. “Nice Photoshopping, guys.”

“Photoshop and CorelDRAW, actually,” Byers corrected.

“Whatever.”

Langley took over. “Internet searches will reveal Geocities and Xoom sites supposedly by fans of Michael Allingham’s writing, as well as some entries at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com for his books. A visit to michaelallingham.com and michaelallingham.co.uk will show an under-construction notice and links to an American book signing tour itinerary. E-mail sent to allingham@michaelallingham.co.uk will blind forward to your AOL account.”

“Wow. Overkill, don’t you think?”

Byers said, “We’re thorough.”

“And we thought you were really going under,” Frohicke added grumpily.

“Do you want us to remove the Internest stuff?” Langley asked.

“Nyah, it might come in use someday. Thanks, guys. I owe you.”

Frohicke nodded agreement. “And what does the charming and delightful Agent Scully think of this little deception?”

“Well, as soon as she finds out, I’ll let you know.”

The Gunmen looked shocked for a moment. Byers then shook his head sadly and left the room. Langley rolled his eyes. Frohicke sighed. “She’s gonna kick your ass, Mulder.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Of course, that might mean I can get back in the running for her affections.”

“After that little Las Vegas stunt? I don’t think so.” I gathered my bogus I.D.s together. “Thanks for the help, guys. I’ll let you know how it went.”

“If you’re still alive to tell the tale,” Frohicke called after me.

 *****

Well, you know what happened Thursday night, Scully. I brought over Thai and the case notes, and we reviewed them. We then covered what you should look for while at the seminar. It seemed pretty cut-and-dried to me.

I thought I was pretty clever, too, with my cover story for what I would be doing while you “improved” yourself in Chicago. I didn’t even mind the inevitable eyebrow I got when announcing I would be investigating stigmata in the Smokey Mountains.

I put in a half day at the office Friday morning, then headed home to change and finish packing. I parked in the long-term lot at National, grabbed my bags, slipped my glasses on, and assumed the persona of Michael Allingham.

Not that anyone cared on the flight, of course, or even once I got to O’Hare and caught the courtesy shuttle to the seminar hotel. I received a small envelope upon check-in inviting me to a reception at 5. Since it was nearly that, I hurried up to my room to drop off my bag and check my appearance one last time. Then I headed for the reception.

 *****

In a way, I was glad Mulder wasn’t around, because if he were, he’d be into his usual isolationist mode, making disparaging comments about the other people at the seminar in an attempt to feel superior to them. Although I usually felt the same way, I had been pleasantly surprised by the other seminar participants and didn’t want Mulder’s superiority complex to distract from what looked to be a unexpectedly pleasant weekend.

I shared the courtesy shuttle from O’Hare with three other participants, a manager from Minneapolis, a veterinarian from Des Moines, and lawyer from Detroit. All seemed reasonable enough people, successful in nearly all phases of their life. All had done research into the Phaedradream seminars, and all had concluded that, even if the seminar didn’t live up to the promise, at least they would have a nice weekend. I told them that I was a forensic pathologist from D.C., and made similar noises about figuring it would be a nice weekend. I felt really comfortable in their presence; I didn’t see how any of these people could go “high school” (as Mulder described it) just because of a seminar.

Once at the hotel I settled into my room, unpacked, and spent the afternoon browsing the fancy Michigan Avenue stores. I allowed the little indulgence since the seminar activities didn't start until a cocktail hour, and I didn’t want to poke around and raise suspicions before the weekend even formally began.

I appeared at the reception promptly at five. An average-sized, well-kept woman approximately my own age greeted people at the door. She had long, wavy blonde hair and wore a flowy, violet dress that wouldn’t look out of place on Stevie Nicks. “I’m Phaedra,” she said, shaking my hand warmly. She seemed genuinely happy to see me, even though she had no idea who I was. “I’m so pleased you could join me this weekend.”

“Dana Scully,” I said. “I’m pleased to be here, too.”

“Please, go inside and meet your fellow seekers. I think you’ll find we have a good mix of personalities.”

“Thanks.” I slipped inside, heading for the bar for a wine spritzer. The veterinarian was getting his drink, too; we fell into a pleasant conversation.

 *****

Phaedra waited at the door to the reception room, greeting people as they entered. I caught a flash of petite redness enter as I got off the elevator. Leave it to you, Scully, to be on time. I took a deep breath, pushed my glasses back up my nose, and approached the door.

She recognized me immediately, of course. “Michael!” She caught me in a hug, planting her lips on mine with all the passion we had felt fifteen years before. I felt myself relaxing, warming to her presence. “Didn’t I tell you we’d meet again?”

“You even pegged the year, love.”

She kept an arm entwined in mine as she brought me inside the room. “I’m so glad,” she continued, guiding me to the bar. She got us two beers, and brought me around to be introduced to the other seminar participants.

And as luck would have it, Scully, you and that veterinary geek were the first ones I got to “meet.”

 *****

I had my back to the bar, so I heard Phaedra speak first. “Dana, Mel, I’d like you to meet Michael Allingham. He’s the person who got me into this business in the first place.”

I turned around, and, well, I couldn’t help it, my eyes widened. Phaedra was introducing me to Mulder. Oh, sure, he was doing his best to look like someone else, with his hair combed forward, his glasses on, a multi-colored striped shirt, khaki pants, and a shiny new pair of Doc Martins on his feet. But I’d know him anywhere.

So this was why he was being so weird this week. So this is why I was going to kick his ass. But I wasn’t going to do it just yet. I raised my eyebrow at him, but smiled for show and offered my hand. “Hello, Michael, I’m Dana Scully.”

He kissed my hand, eyes connecting with mine as if in challenge. “Pleased to meet you, love.” He spoke with a really nice English accent. He then shook hands with the veterinarian and exchanged pleasantries.

Phaedra smiled at Mulder, squeezed his arm, and pulled him down to whisper in his ear. He snorted, shaking his head. Phaedra tugged at his sleeve. “I want to introduce him to everyone else before dinner starts,” she explained, dragging him away.

I kept an eye (and an ear, as much as I could) on him as I resumed pleasantries with Mel. I had no idea what he was up to, or why he was pretending to be English, or why he couldn’t tell me he was going to pull this shit before he pulled it. You’d think he would have a clue by now—after almost seven years of working together—that I get really cranky when he tries to be sneaky. He always means well, yeah, but he always screws up big time, and almost always gets us into big trouble.

Phaedra and Mulder made the circuit of the room, then led the way into the adjoining room for the welcoming dinner. Our hostess stood at the head of the table and pointed people to their optimal positions. She seated me between Mel and Mulder. Lorna-the-lawyer sat on Mel’s other side and engaged him in small talk. I looked at Mulder and cocked my head at him. “Well?”

“Well what, Miss Scully?” He tried to look perplexed. Phaedra—who sat on the other side of him, at the head of the table—caught his hand again. He glanced at her, grinning almost playfully.

Phaedra returned his smile. “First names, Michael. We’re all friends here.”

“Sorry.” He looked back at me, his lips pursed in amusement. “Dana…well what?”

“You sound like you’ve come an awfully long way to attend a self-improvement seminar, Michael.”

“Actually, not really. I have been on a book signing tour over here for the past month, and heard about the seminar from a fan. Then it turns out Phaedra’s the same girl I knew back at university.”

“Ah, I see. So you’re an author. What do you write?”

“Science fiction novels, the odd review, nothing you’ve read, I’m sure.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“You seem the practical sort, that’s all. You’re probably some sort of scientist or doctor. You know, someone who doesn’t go for flights of fancy.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” I leaned closer and whispered, “You are so toast, Mulder.”

He pulled back, as if genuinely confused. “Mulder? Who’s Mulder?”

“You’re going to owe me big time by the end of the weekend.”

“Is that a promise, then?” His eyes twinkled.

But then the salad course arrived and further conversation had to be delayed. Mulder chatted with Phaedra between courses; he didn’t slip in his accent once. He seemed more relaxed than usual, less sarcastic in his pronouncements…. He was Mulder, and yet _not_ Mulder, which left me both thinking that he could have made a name for himself in films and that he had better have a _damned_ good explanation when I got him alone.

Phaedra dismissed everyone after dinner—well, everyone except Mulder. I wandered back to my room to bide my time until I got my explanation.

 *****

I could feel you seethe throughout dinner, Scully, so I was just as glad that Phaedra whisked me off afterwards. She brought me up to her suite, poured me a glass of Pinot Grigio, and curled up next to me on the couch. “I am so glad you came this weekend, Michael.”

“As am I, ducks. It’s been far too long.” I noted her absence of wine. “You’re not joining me?” I asked, holding up my glass.

She shook her head. “I think I have a cold coming on—wine hasn’t been tasting right all week.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Like last time we met, I am in need of your help.”

“You don’t need to be ‘transformed’ again, do you?”

“I need my guardian angel again. I think my ability’s gone south.”

“In what sense?”

“In the sense that within the past 6 weeks, two of my seminar attendees have committed murder, and three others suicide.”

“And you think you have something to do with it?”

“Well, the FBI came around asking questions. I wasn’t about to explain my abilities to them, so all they got out of me was that they had issues they wanted resolved.”

“And just what are your abilities, love?” I asked, sipping the wine.

She smiled. “That’s right, I never really told you.”

“All you told me is that you had a good time and you’d see me in fifteen years. What is it that you can do now?”

“It’s hard to describe.” She cuddled closer and intertwined her fingers with mine. “I help people realize their dreams.”

“Well, yes, that’s what your seminars are all about, right?”

“I don’t just give people a pep talk, Michael. I somehow reach into their souls and—how can I describe it? I free them from whatever’s holding them back.”

“From what? Their fondest desires?”

“Yes. It’s supposed to be a positive experience.”

“But if people have died….”

“I’ve been doing these seminars for almost ten years, Michael. The deaths have happened in the past six weeks.”

“And you can’t think of anything that happened to you that could have caused this? Any blow to the head? Any illness? Any missing time, even?”

“No. Nothing. That’s why I’m so worried. And that’s why I need you here. I need you, Michael. You’ve always been my guardian angel. You woke my power back in London. Maybe you can straighten it out now.”

“Ah, so you _do_ want to hop on the good foot and do the bad thing.”

“Does this bother you?”

“You don’t even know if I’m attached.”

“You’re not, but you want to be. I can sense that.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really. And since you’re not formally attached….” She took the glass out of my hand, took my lower lip in her mouth, and, well, let’s just say she took me slow and sweet. Several times. And when I staggered back to my room around 2 a.m., I didn’t give any thought to the slight headache I had.

So now I’m just about to go to bed, and I’m really hoping you’re not going to try to hash things out _now_ , because I’m spent and I need to sleep.

 *****

I finally gave up trying Mulder’s room around 1 a.m. If he wasn’t in his room, he must still be with Phaedra, and since they seem to have a mutual history…. Well, it’s not like Mulder gets any, ever, so who was I to ruin a rare good evening?

Since the first session started at 9, I buzzed his room at 7:53. I figured we could grab breakfast and he could at least start to explain the shit he was pulling. He answered on the second ring. “Hallo.”

“You can drop the accent, Mulder. It’s just me.”

“Me, who? Oh, the delightful Dana. What can I do for you?”

“Breakfast?”

“Right you are. Shall we say downstairs in the coffee shop in, oh, 20 minutes?”

“How about ten?”

“Well, if you don’t mind me with wet hair….”

“I’ll make that sacrifice, Mulder.”

“Michael.”

“Whatever. See you downstairs.” I hung up and headed down to the coffee shop, securing us a booth in the back. Not like I wanted to make the reaming any more public than it would already be.

Mulder showed up shortly, as promised with wet hair. He also had on a paisley collarless shirt that would look at home in a _Brady Bunch_ episode, his glasses, and black denim jeans. (I’m describing what he wore to emphasize that he was dressing really differently from usual, not that I noticed otherwise. Or, actually, _tried_ not to notice otherwise.) He slid in across from me and immediately buried himself in the menu. The waitress came by; I ordered coffee and multi-grain cereal; he had tea and an english muffin. Once we had our beverages, I leaned across the table and said, “Okay. What exactly is going on?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” He looked at me with his patented puppy-dog expression. “It’s rather disconcerting to find out that a character one’s been writing about for years has turned out to be a real person.”

“Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too far, Mulder?”

“It’s even more disconcerting to think that you think I’m Fox Mulder.”

“Aren’t you?”

He shook his head. “Only in my head. And only when I’m writing another X-Files book.”

“X-Files _book?_ I’m totally lost.”

“I’m more so…because until this morning, I thought this world was my latest book.” The food arrived; he spread honey on his muffin.

“I have no idea what you mean.” Mulder was starting to scare me. Usually I can tell when he’s dicking me around, because his eyes can’t hide it. But I saw none of that. I saw a man genuinely concerned, genuinely confused…. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here…Michael.”

He gave me a small smile. “Well, as I said last night, I heard about the seminar through a fan at a book signing, and I thought it would be good research for my next book. So I rung up, and found out that Phaedra was the same girl I knew back at university.”

“Knew her how?”

“Knew her bloody well. An acquaintance I was happy to renew last night, I might add.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “And when you were introduced to me last night?”

He thought about it a moment, chewing on his lower lip. “It’s a little fuzzy. I remember role-playing in my head Mulder pretending to be me and meeting his partner, but….” He sighed. “It’s fuzzy,” he repeated. He then pulled out a leather portfolio and passed it over to me. “Here’s a little reading material to get you through breakfast. My book to date. Although how I got to meet Phaedra is all artistic license, what happened between us isn’t.” He bit into his muffin and averted his look while I read.

A dozen or so scribbled pages later, I understood why Mulder didn’t say anything beforehand, and why he felt he had to go undercover. I still didn’t understand, though, why he thought he was his undercover identity. Unless it had something with having intimate contact with Phaedra. I was about to ask if he had any theories when he glanced at his watch. “We’d best head upstairs. We wouldn’t want to be late for the morning session.” He signed his assumed name to the check, added his room number, and reclaimed his writing.

He let me lead the way to the elevator, but he didn’t put the customary guiding hand on the small of my back. He seemed lost in thought on the way up to the seminar room.

 *****

Okay, so Spooky here is seriously spooked. I have _no idea_ where that crap about suddenly landing in a book I was supposedly writing came from. I mean, yeah, I was mostly asleep when you called my room this morning, but still… I had no real clue to what I was doing until after I had signed off on breakfast. I thought to myself that it was pretty good I didn’t hesitate signing my alternate name, and then what all had happened at breakfast hit me.

I could chalk it up to wanting to see how big a hole I could dig for myself before you found out for sure, but since you had already read my notes to date, there was no way I could get in any deeper doo-doo.

So I’m spending the morning session—when I should be paying attention to what Phaedra is saying, despite it all sounding exactly like everything I’ve ever heard when channel surfing past a self-improvement program—trying to figure out what’s going on in the hidden regions of my mind. I’m not having much success concentrating, though, especially not with you trying to read my scribblings from time to time.

I should really get laid more often. Then, when I do, I won’t be so addle-brained the following morning.

 *****

An hour and a half into the talk, a small bell tinged and Phaedra smiled. “Take a break, people. Be thinking, though, about why you came here, what you want more than anything. We’ll discuss when we regroup.”

We drifted out of the room, pausing at the coffee setup in the hallway. Mulder had more tea; I went with mineral water. “Any ideas?”

“Me? No. How about you, then? What do you think?”

“I think that if I were Mulder, I’d be thinking that Phaedra can get into people’s minds.”

“Like Modell?”

I cocked my head. “You’re remembering?”

“I’m remembering one of my X-Files stories.”

“Uh huh.”

“Humor me for the moment, Dana.”

“Don’t I always humor you?”

“You always humor Mulder, yes. And since you seem to think I am Mulder operating under a delusion—“

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to, love. It’s in your eyes.” The bell tinged again; Mulder put his cup down on a tray. “Ah, the self-improvement resumes. And I can’t wait to hear what the enigmatic Doctor Scully—you _are_ a Doctor, I presume, you are in my stories—could possibly want the most out of life that she doesn’t already have.”

 *****

I’m apologizing right now, Scully. I don’t have a clue why I slipped back into full Michael mode during the break, other than a deep-seated subconscious desire to annoy the shit out of you.

But now for some real work: making notes on what everyone at the seminar wants out of life. So…

Lorna – lawyer – wants respect of her peers. Doesn’t everyone?

Louis – lab tech, major teaching hospital here in Chicago—money. Doesn’t everyone?

George—middle management – success in his field. He’s not going to get it by being in middle management!

Jim – marketing manager – less stress. Shouldn’t he just take up tai chi?

Julie – administrative assistant – power, especially over people she works with. Next psycho?

Raymond – another lawyer – spiritual wealth. Needs a new profession to find that….

Mel –veterinary— _veterinarian_ – do more for animals. I hear PETA calling his name.

(Phaedra came to me next. I responded with “a normal life”, which let you get revenge, Scully, by planting a chunky heel in my shin.)

And Scully, the best for last—romance? Romance?! Not you, Scully. Nice cover story, though.

In any case, Phaedra did with you what she did with the rest of us. Review time, Scully! She placed her hand on top of your head, closing her eyes and breathing slowly. The hand slid to the chin; your eyes closed and your breathing matched Phaedra’s. But then…then…Phaedra’s eyes snapped opened. She looked at your enraptured expression (and this is _not_ an exaggeration!), smiled, and then glanced at me.

If anything, Phaedra’s grin broadened. She patted my cheek, broke contact with you, and returned to the front of the room. “An hour and a half for lunch, my friends. We’ll discuss how to prepare yourself for your new life this afternoon.”

The others filed out of the room with slightly dazed expressions. Then you turned to me and invited me out.

 *****

“Lunch?” I asked Michael.

“On your expense account?”

“How about yours?”

“I don’t have one.”

“If you say so….” I stood; Michael gathered his notes and followed me out.

We left the hotel, choosing a designer Chinese place a block or so away. We chatted about the weather on the way over, not saying anything all that interesting, but really just enjoying each other’s company.

I liked the opportunity just to study my companion. Intellectually, I knew that he _had_ to be Mulder. There could be no logical explanation, especially with the way my idiot partner was acting the past few days. But instinctually… instinctually….

The more time I spent with “Michael,” the more I was convinced he was his own person. Mulder, for one thing, sucked at undercover work. Especially if I was around. His snarky nature demanded he make smart-ass comments about all people and situations he encountered. Michael, however, kept his opinions to himself—assuming he had any opinions in the first place.

He carried himself differently from Mulder, too. He was walking right next to me, instead of a few steps behind me, with his hands in his pants pockets and his portfolio tucked under an armpit. His walk wasn’t nearly as driven, and he seemed much more cheerful than Mulder could ever hope to be.

We reached the restaurant, and Michael held the door open for me. He followed the waiter to the table, leaving me to take up the rear. I ordered steamed vegetables and rice. Michael chose the kung pao chicken and insisted on sharing an order of pot stickers. We sat with a pot of green tea between us.

He tucked a couple of pens in his portfolio, and tucked it under his chair. He then met my gaze and smiled. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Am not.”

“Do I really look that much like your partner?”

“Yes. And sound like him, too, except for the accent.” I looked up at him, anticipating a joke about _The Patty Duke Show._

Instead, he shrugged. “Well, I did base a lot of Mulder on myself. Although I always fancied Scott Bakula would play him on screen. That might be a bit of a leap, though….”

“If you say so.” I sighed. “Is Mulder really just a dream?”

“He’s a figment of my imagination. But then again, so are you. So I don’t know what to think.”

“Me, neither.”

He sipped his tea, then asked, “What exactly did you feel when Phaedra touched you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you seemed to withdraw into yourself. What happened?”

I thought about it a moment. “I don’t know,” I admitted finally. “I remember the cadence of her voice, but not what she said.”

“And when she looked at me?”

“I that’s when I stopped completely doubting you were who you said you were.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

The pot stickers arrived. Michael picked up one and dipped it in the provided chili sauce. “And this didn’t strike you as strange?”

“Should it have?”

“You’ve spent most of the day so far trying to convince me I _wasn’t_ me.”

“So I was wrong. Is that so bad?” I dipped a pot sticker and offered it to him. “I can see some definite benefits to you _not_ being my partner.”

“Can you.” He looked uncomfortable.

“What’s the matter, Michael? I thought you wanted a normal life. Doesn’t that include romance?”

“Well, yes, of course, but not with a figment of my imagination.”

“I assure you, I’m very real.”

“Yes, I think you are.” He tried to pull his hand away; I held on tightly. “Wouldn’t you agree, though, that you’re behaving awfully strange for yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you be coming on this strongly to anyone else? If you met them in a pub or on a case?”

“Well…no. But you’re different. You’re so much like Mulder, but you’re not him.”

“Ah, so I’m _your_ fantasy come to life, too.”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“And have you always wanted to shag your partner?”

I blushed, and I looked down at the table. Then the food came, and he became too busy shoveling an excellent kung pao into his face to pursue the topic.

We finished up in silence, then strolled back to the seminar hotel hand in hand (reluctantly at first on his part) and resumed our assigned seats. And that’s when we had our first hint that something was about to go wrong.

Mel had an odd gleam in his eye. He pointed at Michael’s portfolio. “Leather?” he asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“And your boots?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“And I suppose you had meat for lunch?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not if you’re a vegetarian.”

“Who said I was?” Michael sat and opened to a clean sheet of paper.

Mel turned his attention to me. “Leather shoes?”

I wiggled a foot. “Looks like canvas to me, Mel. What’s the problem?”

He shrugged. “I seem suddenly bothered by the abuse of animals.”

Michael smiled. “Have you ever considered joining PETA?”

“It’s not a bad idea.”

Lorna and Julie returned; Mel turned his inquiring mind to them. I settled next to Michael. “Does he turn out to be the next perpetrator in your book?”

“Mulder would bet on him. Either him or Julie.”

“Why Julie?”

“Wants power over other people. Classic motivator.”

“And you’re not a psychologist.”

“A good novelist is a psychologist without any formal training.”

“And a bad novelist--?”

“Usually makes the best-seller list more often than I. I’ve won an award or two.”

“From the Lone Gunmen or some legitimate organization?”

“Your medical skills must come in handy, considering how well you’re able to wound with your words.”

Phaedra returned with a small box, breezing to the front of the room and blowing everyone back into their seats. I moved a foot next to Michael’s; he gave me a small smile before turning his attention to our leader.

 *****

You’re good, Scully, damn good. You’ve got me convinced that not only do you think that I’m actually someone named Michael Allingham, but also that you’re hot for him. You were more touchy-feely during lunch than you’ve been in all the years we’ve been partnered.

I know, I know, I brought it on all myself by doing the deep undercover in the first place. You have every right to dick with my head, after the way I dicked with yours all week. But, still, the romance angle… especially when you know how I feel (even if you don’t believe me). Low blow. A really low blow.

(I wish I _were_ Michael Allingham, and I wish you were really falling for him at first sight, so then we could be together without fucking up our partnership. But if I were really Michael, there wouldn’t be a partnership to fuck up. There! I’ve run rings around myself logically!)

So, anyway, Phaedra has pulled a candle out of her box, and has now lit it. And since she wants us to concentrate on it I suppose I might as well go along. Might make it easier for me to figure out what’s going on.

 *****

I have to confess here that I have no clue what Phaedra said during the afternoon session, only that she spoke for several hours in soothing tones that lulled most of us into a quasi-hypnotic state. I’m sure that Mulder—if he were there—would have completely been fished in by the act. I thought it was really nice, and I didn’t feel hypnotized in the least. Rather, I felt the same peace and relaxation I feel in Mass, when I can dump whatever mundane worries fills my mind and really become one with the service, with the Father….

Needless to say, I felt the same surprise I feel when Mass ends when Phaedra clapped her hands three times and announced, “See you at dinner, 7 p.m., right here. It’ll be a good chance for you to put what you’ve learned today into action.” She smiled benevolently at us and gathered her things.

I felt something soft in my hands; somehow I had obtained a little royal blue velvet pouch. I peeked inside, finding a couple of well-polished stones.

“Wishstones,” Michael explained, noting the puzzlement on my face. “She passed them out 2 hours ago.” My eyebrow rose. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure no one else noticed, either. She had everyone pretty much hypnotized.”

“But not you.”

“Come on up to my room; I’ll give you the whole story there.” He waited for me to stand, then took my hand in his and brought me to the elevators. We rode to his floor in a companionable silence. Once inside the room, he flung himself onto the bed. I perched on the side and waited for him to begin.

“Fact: you thought I was your partner playing a trick on you until Phaedra asked you what you wanted most in life and you answered ‘romance.’ What you didn’t see was that Phaedra then looked at me and smiled. It was like she was joining us in some way.”

“What does that—“

“Fact: Mel the Veterinary said he wanted to help protect animals. When we returned from lunch, he had all but set up his personal chapter of PETA. Fact: Phaedra mesmerized nearly the entire group all afternoon.”

“But not you.”

Michael shrugged. “I may be immune to her abilities. Perhaps some protection offered by shagging her.”

“How did she mesmerize everyone else?”

“I’m not sure. I suspect it has something to do with her body chemistry. Some sort of ability to interact with the subconscious. Her words themselves were nothing spectacular—nothing that hasn’t already been said by any number of self-help gurus.” He sat up and rolled off the bed. “I have to visit the loo…won’t be a mo.” He ducked into the bathroom.

I pulled out the wishstones, fingering them gently. They were almost like counting rosary beads—giving the same sense of relaxation and hope. My mind began to drift, and I could see myself and Michael sharing a candlelit dinner…dancing under the stars…turning to each other at an altar…chasing after a three-year-old…cuddling together on a cold, winter night under a pile of blankets…

Michael yanked the stones out of my hands. I shook my head, jerked out of my reverie and feeling more than a little ticked off about it. “Michael!”

“I see Phaedra’s skills include making powerful post-hypnotic suggestions.” He tucked the stones back into the small bag. “She told everyone to use the wishstones as a meditation tool, to help clear the mind and to focus on your main desire.”

“But I wasn’t—“

“She also said that you should go into meditation mode whenever you touched the stones.”

“Oh.” I slipped the bag into my purse. “I hate losing time like that.”

“It wasn’t lost. You just didn’t notice. There’s a difference.”

“If you say so.” I grabbed for his hand again and hung onto it tightly.

He gave me a bemused look and helped me to my feet. “Dana, ducks, I think you need some time alone. I know I do. Why don’t you take one of those baths you’re allegedly so fond of? I’ll come round say half an hour before dinner and we can formulate a plan for the evening.” He brushed his lips against the top of my head and shooed me out of his room with a breathy “See you soon, love.”

I wandered back to the elevator and headed back down to my room, surprised that I simply didn’t float down.

 *****

Fact: Phaedra’s abilities didn’t begin manifestation until puberty. Fact: Phaedra’s abilities didn’t finish manifesting until she had been shagged. (Whether this was a physical or a psychological requirement doesn’t matter at this point.) Fact: Six weeks ago, some of the people in her workshops have gone off the deep end. Fact: She hasn’t changed her presentation style or anything else about the workshop. Conjecture: Has something changed in her body chemistry?

Strewth, I wish Mulder were here. But his presence this afternoon seems more elusive than a best-selling book. It’s so unlike him to abandon me in the middle of a story. But then again, it’s so unlike normalcy to have the quite fictional Doctor Scully pop up in real life, very much a real, attractive, brilliant woman. Something strange is going on, and it has to do with Phaedra… and her hormones.

She’s too young to be going through menopause, and although perimenopause could be a factor, it wasn’t something that came on suddenly. The only sudden hormonal change I could think of in women was… pregnancy.

I wonder who else she has been shagging.

My literary alter ego would go and ask. I could do no less. I checked that I had my room key and headed for the elevator.

 *****

The awful truth set in somewhere in the middle of my bath. I hate to admit this even to myself, but I was thinking of Michael, and getting really excited, and then my logical self finally got a word in. And in retrospect I feel really embarrassed about my behavior all day. I mean, really, thinking that “Michael” could actually be a real person—a real person separate from Mulder.

It was the afternoon trance that brought me to my senses, after all. If everyone was affected but him, didn’t that mean he was _already_ affected? That’s why he thought he was this Michael person—he was hypnotized. He’s so gullible for that kind of thing…. He wouldn’t be so convincing if he were in his right mind.

For a split second I wanted to find Phaedra and demand she remove whatever post-hypnotic suggestion she planted in my head that made me get all teenager around Michael. Mulder. Whoever. But then again, from what Mulder has said about her, she doesn’t consciously realize what she’s doing. If she’s not consciously hypnotizing people, she can’t consciously un-hypnotize them.

I let the water drain from the bath and turned on the shower—not cold, really, but pretty damn tepid. I needed to get back on the case…talk to the other workshop participants, see if I can detect any change in attitude that would indicate one of them were planning to go psycho. I had to put Michael— _Mulder—_ out of my mind for now. I had to trust that even though he thought he was someone else, he could take care of himself while I took care of the case.

 *****

No one answered the door at Phaedra’s suite; the door of course was locked. Not that I would have barged in if it were open. That was such a Mulderism. I turned back to the elevator bank, figuring that she must still be in the conference room or even perhaps in the hotel bar. I pushed the button for the lift and waited for it to arrive. Waited…and waited…and waited. Finally I gave up and took the stairs down to the conference level.

And it was a good thing I did, too.

As I hit the conference level, I saw Julie-the-administrative-assistant scoot through the double doors leading to the service corridors. Since she had absolutely no reason to be wandering through the back corridors, I decided to follow.

She moved with a singular purpose, checking all the food service staging areas for _something._ She found an unattended, ready-to-go banquet set-up, complete with utensils appropriate to slicing up the no-doubt dry and tough gourmet repast. Julie grabbed several steak knives, slipped them into her pants pocket and turned around.

And that’s when I found out it’s nearly impossible to act non-chalant when you have a guilty look on your face. “Oh! Er… I don’t suppose this is the way to the…pool, is it?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not dressed for it.”

“The chlorine helps clear my sinuses.”

“Were you following me?”

“Why? Did you need following?”

She glared at me, then pushed past me back the way she came. I found the nearest exit. Phaedra first. I could do nothing about Julie until she actually used her weapons.

The doors opened into the actual conference room we had used all weekend. Phaedra sat at the head table, head and arms resting on table and mouth slightly open in sleep. I pulled up a chair opposite her. “Phaedra?” I began, brushing her hair out of her face.

She opened an eye, then sat up, flustered. “Michael! I’m so sorry, I just put my head down for a moment and—“

“—don’t worry about it, love. Been catching a lot of catnaps lately, have you?”

“Now that you mention it, yes.”

“Have you been off your feed?”

“What?”

“Has your appetite been off?”

“In some ways.” She gave me a puzzled look. “What’s all this leading to?”

“Have you had your period since the trouble with your participants began?”

“Uh….no.”

“I thought so.”

Phaedra noted my smug expression. “Thought so what?”

“Who else have you been shagging lately?”

“Why should _that_ matter?”

“Because he’s the father of your child.”

“Child?! But I don’t-- oh.” The light dawned. “That would explain a lot.”

“Yes, it would. Should congratulations be in order?”

“I…have to think about this.” She stood abruptly. “Can we talk later, Michael?”

“Of course.” I gave her a reassuring smile. She attempted a return grin and hurried out of the room.

 *****

After my shower, I decided to check my voice mail and got another surprise. Mulder’s voice greeted me. “Yo, Scully, where you be, girlfriend? Too busy improving yourself to recharge your phone? Well, there ain’t nothing but wild nuts here in the Smokey Mountains, so I’m heading back to civilization and will try to catch you sometime tomorrow. I’m going to be out of cell phone range for a couple hours, so leave me a message if anything interesting’s going down.”

I saved the message, tried Mulder’s phone, got an “out of area” message, sat down on the bed and sighed. He had to have set it up beforehand, to taunt me with his alleged cleverness. Still, it might come in use—what would “Michael’s” reaction be to hear “Mulder’s” voice?

I decided to use the time before Michael’s—Mulder’s—arrival to do a little research on my fellow seminar attendees. I dug my laptop out of its case, then jacked into the data port and logged on to the FBI secure server. Either I had a really good connection or no one else was working background checks, because I got answers on all the participants as quickly as the dial-up would allow.

As I suspected, though, everyone seemed to check out, at least at the surface level. I put in a request for a deeper check on Mel and Julie, then decided to check out Mulder’s alias.

The answer came up several moments later. I stared at the screen, impressed. I would like to think that the Gunmen—for all their hacking skills—would not be able to break into the FBI database to deposit bogus information. Then again, considering how often they tap into the DOD, hitting the FBI would be like posting to a Usenet group for them. Still… Michael Allingham had one reference, and that was that he had been hassled by a militant paranormal support group during a book promotion tour here in 1997.

Now I was intrigued. I switched to my browser, popped over to Yahoo!, and plugged in my partner’s alias. The gunmen were certainly thorough; I’ll give them that… but why Mulder would want them to be that thorough just for a weekend of “let’s pretend” is beyond me. Unless the boys were simply bored with their usual forms of entertainment one night. Unless Michael was a real person.

No, no, no, no, no. Michael Allingham was not a real person. My idiot partner was pretending to be someone with that name. Any feelings I was having for him were planted by Phaedra. She was playing on my not-too-unconscious wishing for a normal life—or at least a normal romance. Mulder’s a friend, a brother, not a lover.

But Michael could be a lover.

I think I need another cold shower.

What I _really_ need, though, is to get this file closed.

 

I was still thinking that some time later, as I finished dressing for dinner. A knock sounded on the door; I let my idiot partner in. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself, love.” He wore gray slacks, a dark shirt, and a nicely-patterned cardigan. He brushed past me and flopped onto the bed. “Find out anything interesting while I was gone?”

“Everyone checks out, at least at a surface level.”

“Even me?”

“Even you.” I found myself blushing.

He smiled at my reaction. “The delightful Doctor Scully lives up to my expectations.” He patted a space on the bed next to him; I sat on a chair. “Don’t trust yourself near me, eh?”

“I am still under some of Phaedra’s influence.”

“And I know why she’s so influential these days. She’s preggers.”

“Pregnant? How far along?”

“Oh, about six weeks.”

I nodded. “And going by her claim that her abilities were brought on by puberty—“

“—with a little help of losing her virginity—“

“—which has no effect hormonally but obviously still makes you giddy just thinking about having had a virgin—“

“You’ll leave my sex life out of this, thank you.”

“It’s your sex life that brought us here in the first place.”

“Did you ever stop to think that breaking her hymen—“

“Now you’re getting really rude!”

Michael grinned. “As rude as you want me to be, love.”

“So, I’m betting your theory is that the hormonal changes brought on by pregnancy has somehow boosted her mental powers, allowing people to fully realize their dreams—even if they’re homicidal ones.”

“You’ll be a believer yet, Doctor Dana.”

“Where would that leave you, then, Mulder?”

He sighed. “We’re back to that, I see.”

I reached for my cell phone, and accessed the mail box. “Play the first message. Maybe you’ll recognize the person speaking.” I tossed him the phone, and watched as he pushed the message button and put it to his ear. His eyebrows drew together as he listened. He pushed the phone power off after he heard the message and returned it to me. “Well?” I prompted.

“Was that Mulder, then?”

“What do you think?”

“Look, the only thing that message proves is that Mulder exists as well. We could be arguing this existential puzzle all weekend, love. What’s more important is why Julie-the-administrative-assistant felt it necessary to skulk about the service corridor and liberate a handful of steak knives.”

I sat up straighter. ”She did what?!”

“Gives a whole new meaning to getting your point across, doesn’t it?”

“She’s one of two I asked for a deeper background check on.”

“The other being our veterinary?”

“Of course.”

“Resourceful and beautiful both. Just as I imagined you.”

I glanced at my watch, anything to not have to meet his eyes. “Hey, Mr. Imagination, it’s dinner time.”

“Will you be packing?”

“Will you?”

He had the grace to turn a little red. “I meant your weapon.”

“Both gun and badge are handy, should they be needed.”

“Good.” He stood and offered me an arm. “Let’s go eat. Intrigue always makes me peckish.”

 *****

We had barely stepped off the elevator onto the conference level when Phaedra came up to us. “Michael! I need to talk to you a moment. In private.” She had wrapped an arm around mine, almost dragging me away.

I glanced at Dana; she nodded, spotted Mel-the-veterinary, and headed for him. Phaedra pulled me into the service corridor and hustled me into a corner between an ice machine and a couple of large service carts. “What should I do?” she whispered.

“About what?”

“Well, those people whom I coerced into committing murder or suicide, for one thing.”

“Can’t bring back the dead, love. And if you could, they would be decaying, foul-smelling, and very, very angry.”

She gave me a small smile. “I knew you could make me feel better, Michael. But what about everything else?”

“Well… are you going to keep the baby?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then perhaps you’d best not give any more seminars until after the child is born—longer if you plan on breastfeeding. It’s your hormonal balance that determines your ability’s effectiveness.”

Phaedra nodded. “And there’s something else…. When I was up in my room, trying to get over the surprise of realising…. I fell asleep again. And you came to me in my dreams.”

“I thought I always did.”

“No, you stopped, actually, once I had slept with you.”

“I suppose I should be disappointed.”

“Anyway…. You came to me again, in the dream. Only it wasn’t exactly you.”

“In what sense?”

“Well, you were in a charcoal suit, you didn’t have your glasses on, and you spoke with a distinctly American accent. And you kept chanting ‘set me free, set me free’ like it was a mantra.”

“That _is_ strange,” I agreed, worrying my lower lip as I thought about it. “Perhaps you should see if you can lessen the strength of the suggestions you have already planted in us this weekend.”

“I’ve never tried that before.”

“I suspect that at least two of us have a great probability of adding to the dead body count if you don’t.”

She looked distressed at that remark. “I don’t even know where to start.”

I took both her hands in mine and pulled her to me in a gentle kiss. “I have the greatest confidence in you, Phaedra. Trust your instincts and everything will work out all right.”

She pulled back; I noted a tear running down the side of her nose. Before I could wipe it for her, though, she rubbed it away as she took a deep breath and stood up a little straighter. “You’re right, of course, Michael. And I know just what to do. Thanks again for your help.” Phaedra let me out of my corner, patting my bottom as I squeaked past her. “I’ll be inside in a few.”

 *****

Most of the others had already arrived and chatted amiably near the portable bar. I ordered myself a diet Coke and turned to Mel, who was keeping to himself. “What’s with you?” I asked innocently.

“I’m not sure. I mean, I’ve always been fond of animals—that’s why I became a veterinarian in the first place. But today….” He sighed, sipping his beer. “Today I’m really, really bothered by leather shoes, leather clothes, meat in dishes….” He pointed at his feet. “I mean, look. I couldn’t bear putting on my dress shoes, so I have my sneakers on.” He pulled at his waistline. “I had to take the belt off right after the morning session. I couldn’t stand wearing something that came from an animal. I mean, I have been thinking about going vegetarian for awhile, but this is ridiculous!”

“Well, this is supposed to be a life-changing weekend.”

“Yeah, but….” He bowed his head a bit. “I think I need to apologize to everyone. I was pretty confrontational at the start of the afternoon session.”

“I wouldn’t go that far….” I soothed.

“The thing I hate worst about the PETA types are their confrontational nature. The way I see it, forcing the issue will only piss off a lot of people. And there I was, all but ready to get out the red paint and feces and pour it on people.” He shuddered. “No excuse.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Thanks. Let me get the others.” Mel gave me a small smile before joining Lorna and Jim.

I sipped my pop, crossing Mel off the suspect list for the moment. That left Julie. She wasn’t in the room yet. Well, if she was planning on taking out anyone at dinner, it was probably taking her a bit longer than planned to conceal her weapons.

The door opened; Michael—Mulder—entered, and stopped at the bar for a longneck before joining me. I clicked my tongue at him. “Drinking on duty, Mulder?”

“I’m not the FBI agent here, Dana.”

I smiled to humor him, then pulled him over to the table, speaking low and nearly in his ear to both make sure we weren’t overheard and interrupted. “Mel seems awfully repentant for his earlier attitude. I don’t think he’s the problem.”

“Then it’s our Knife Thief…especially since it seems she’s late for dinner.”

“So’s our hostess,” I pointed out.

“I think she’s preparing for another ritual. She’s going to stop giving the seminars until her hormonal levels straighten out, and I asked her if she could do something to lessen the effect of her suggestions earlier today.” He smiled. “Mulder couldn’t have done better himself.”

Julie entered the room then; she seemed a little sheepish as she cradled a bandaged hand in the other. Michael casually waved her over. She hesitated; he waved again and she blushed as she came over. “What happened to your hand?” he asked quietly.

“Something stupid. You know those knives you saw me take? I was using them as darts to throw at a drawing of my bosses. I got a little too enthusiastic and cut myself. Three stitches. The hotel doc just finished sewing me up.”

“Well, that’s certainly cutting to the quick of your problem, eh?”

I rolled my eyes. Julie smiled self-depreciatingly. “Yeah, something like that. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get something to numb the pain.” She headed for the bar.

Michael caught my hand in his. “That seems to wrap up this x-file. Not as serious as some of the others I have written, but I’ve been meaning to put out a collection of humorous tales.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “There’s still the matter of who you are.”

He leaned forward, so that we were nearly nose to nose. “Does that really matter at this point?” he murmured.

His nearness, his scent, his soulful hazel eyes—I wanted to kiss him—or to do other things to him—right then and there and not care who thought what. Instead I taunted him back by licking my lips and whispering, “If you’re really Michael, then one of us is in the wrong universe. And if you’re really Mulder, not only are you still operating under a delusion, you’re also trying to broach territory we’re not going to be broaching.”

“Not ever?” he breathed. “I ask in the interests of research, only.”

“Not now.” I managed to pull away as a soft bell rang and Phaedra entered the room.

She carried a handful of candles and her small bell. Motioning for everyone to sit, she passed out the candles and simply smiled when asked what they were for. A gesture to the bartender started the meal service.

Michael fortunately kept his hands to himself, although his foot did rest suspiciously close to mine. And although I could have nudged it away, I chose not to.

If he were really Mulder, he probably wouldn’t remember anything of this afternoon, and thus a little extra flirting couldn’t do any real damage to our working relationship.

 *****

I’m using the few minutes between dessert clean-up and whatever Phaedra has planned to catch up on my notes. The ending in real-life is weak, but in a way I’m quite pleased I didn’t actually have to witness some of the blood and gore that Mulder has become accustomed to. I can always punch it up in the re-write.

I’m still puzzled by Doctor Dana’s presence, though. One of us must have slipped a dimension. Either that or I’m completely delusional. I would like to think that Dana exists outside my imagination, especially since she has proven to be as beautifully vibrant as I envisioned her. And I would like to think that if I met her, she would be as attracted to me as I suspect she might be to her partner. (Especially since Mulder is basically my alter ego.)

I’m going to have to put the whole experience down to my wanting to find my own Dana, someone both sexy and intelligent who would happily board my deranged trains of thought.

Ah—the ritual is about to begin. Phaedra is lighting our candles for us, and asking us to concentrate on the flame. Not that I’m the world’s greatest candidate for hypnotism, but—

*****

I could tell I lost time only by the fact that the candle had burned down an inch or so when I became aware of it next. Phaedra clapped her hands twice and commanded, “You may blow them out now.”

I pursed my lips and blew, meeting Michael’s eyes as the flame extinguished. He seemed a little confused and a little wary. “You okay?” I asked him.

“Um…sure. Sure.” He shook the mood off with a small smile. “I must be more vulnerable to hypnotism than I thought.”

“Another trait you share with Mulder.”

“You might say I share a lot with Mulder.”

“I’ve been saying that all weekend.”

“So I’ve noticed. Ah, here comes dessert!”

He busied himself in the tiramisu, finishing off the dregs of mine in addition to all of his. He then made small talk the rest of the evening with everyone but me. I knew the behavior well. I only wondered, did Mulder feel guilty for his little deception, or had something happened while he was under? Seeing that I wasn’t going to get any answers soon, I made do with soothing Mel’s guilt and encouraging Julie to look into an anger management program.

Sometime later, when I scanned the room for him, both he and Phaedra were gone.

*****

What the fuck happened this afternoon? I remember Phaedra starting her afternoon session, and then, poof! There I was at dinner, blowing out the candle. I have vague impressions of things happening in between. Maybe it’ll make more sense once I get a chance to read what I wrote. But first, I want to get down what happened once Phaedra whisked me out of the room.

As you probably expect by now, she did take me back up to her suite, and she did pour me another excellent glass of wine. She dug out a bottled water from the frig, then settled next to me on the couch, snuggling against me. “How can I thank you, Michael? You not only pinpointed my problem, you came up with a solution, too. You really are my patron saint.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, love. I’m just a man.”

“You’re my savior, and I’m not going to let you say otherwise.”

I smiled at that. “So now that I’ve saved you again, does this mean we’re not going to have a thing to do with each other for another 15 years?”

“Okay, so maybe that was a little stupid. But I was right about us getting together again, wasn’t I?”

“Yes you were.”

“So can we stay in contact?”

“Do you know how much it costs to call England?”

“Do you have e-mail access?”

“’Course.” I tore off a corner of one of my portfolio pages and gave the address the Gunmen had set up for me. “Here you go. What’s yours?”

She told me; I scribbled it in the margin a few pages back, you’ll notice. She added, “And I am going to kick you out now.”

“Ah-ha!”

“No, not permanently. I’m just really tired and I would like to go to sleep.” She gave me an extra-friendly night-night kiss. “Thanks again.”

“Oh, thank you!”

So I returned to my room, and, one cold shower later, I am catching you up so I can catch myself up.

Is it too late to apologize profusely for this entire weekend?

 *****

Mulder called me first in the morning for breakfast; he was still sounding English but otherwise was completely his usual idiot self. We met again in the hotel coffee shop, where he complemented (to use that term loosely) his pancakes with a pot of tea. “At least your diet seems to be inching back toward normalcy,” I commented. “Now if you’d just lose the accent….”

“Y’know, Scully, most American women are turned on by an English accent.”

“Uh huh.” I stared him down until he sighed.

“Actually, I can’t seem to talk normally yet. I’m sure it’s just due to Phaedra’s nearness.”

“I really don’t need to hear every last detail of your sex life.”

“If you’re implying that I did Phaedra again last night—“

“Didn’t you?”

“Gentlemen don’t tell.”

“Oh, so now you’re a gentleman?”

He made a face at that. “Look. I’m sure that by the time Skinner has my butt stuck between his teeth, I will be back to my usual sardonic American self. In the meantime, you’ll just have to deal, love.”

“Don’t call me ‘love.’”

“If you keep being this difficult, perhaps I won’t bother telling you how the x-file has resolved itself. I’ll make you suffer through more pages of my horrible handwriting.”

“Whatever.” I was starting my revenge early.

“Fine.” He all but tossed me his portfolio. I feigned disinterest as I read his notes, then returned them to him without comment. “Well?”

“Well what?” I asked, trying not to smile.

“No comments?”

“You’d better finish up your breakfast. It’s almost time for the final session.”

“Yes, mother.” He kept his eyes on his plate the rest of the meal.

 *****

I wonder if Skinner will chew my ass out so much there won’t be any left for you to kick. Nyaaaaah. Wishful thinking.

Well, you know the rest, Scully. Another inspiring talk on Sunday, nothing earth-shattering but then again Phaedra wasn’t trying to push anyone. And so we’re here now on the plane, and you’re not saying much to me, which is only right, I suppose, because The Punishment has already begun. Still, cut me _some_ slack, huh? I meant well.

I _did._

And getting laid was just a bonus. Really!!!!!


End file.
